


May I Never Be Complete, Content or Perfect

by criminalinwestwood



Category: Fight Club (1999), Fight Club - Chuck Palahniuk, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 00:30:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/criminalinwestwood/pseuds/criminalinwestwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Moran is a sniper for hire, he entertains himself with simple pleasures, his happiness is bought. His happiness is fake. Jim Moriarty is a consulting criminal, the unseen face of nearly every criminal operation in London. Jim's happiness is actualised through action and impulse. An unlikely bond is formed. WIP. 1st Chapter only. Rated M for future chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May I Never Be Complete, Content or Perfect

His life seemed to be a blur of insignificant events and images, each person wearing the same pointless mask, hiding from themselves and each other. Living 'happy' lives as they followed any orders given, desperate for direction. Each moment filled with idle chatter created to entertain the superficial cattle, pointless people discussing pointless things. It's all just static, put there to fill the silence; everyone is too afraid to listen. Afraid that if they stop talking they'll become aware of how trivial their existence really is.

Sebastian dressed slowly, dread obvious in his movements through lack of enthusiasm. He stood before applying his dinner jacket, fabric snapping taut as he righted it. He wore a tailored grey suit, lacked a tie, collar open as he assessed his profile in the hotel mirror. He hated these meetings, every one a copy of the first, each consisting of interchangeable elements. A pretentious business man who overestimates his own worth. An unspeaking subordinate, usually at the shoulder of the superior, purpose being intimidation. An overpriced restaurant, with a menu he doesn't need to read. They all amount to the same image; a pointless meeting so a small man can groom his overinflated ego.

The clients don't need to meet him, he's easily seen and evaluated; too uncaring of watchful eyes to hide. The unnecessary formality is tiring, the need to present himself tedious. After a bored evaluation he strode from his room, he carried a small revolver in a shoulder holster; it tapped idly against his chest in stride. A car waited at the hotel entrance, he jogged slightly to meet it; hands in pockets. The door opened almost automatically as he encroached, allowing him to step in casually and face his client.

***

Sebastian was propped up against a wall, heels of his hands grinding into his eye sockets in frustration, flashes of light and colour contorting beneath his closed lids in response. He was aware of the rough, crackling texture of his palms. Finger tips dragged over an ashen face in an attempt to rile a distant mind. He hadn't slept in days. Despite heavy lids and a barely conscious mind, sleep remained elusive.

***

He always tried to avoid the idle pleasantries extended his way, clients always desperate to please the man with the gun. Each handshake and commendation ignored; people looked uneasy around him. Every mark was so predictable, the cheating wife, the corporate opponent, crimes of passion or want. People removing obstacles from their lives as they struggled to win a race with no end, no final objective. Animals fighting to get ahead without reason, desperate to achieve a goal that doesn't exist.

His less-than-honourable discharge meant that even as a gun for hire, he held a reputation. People seemed to shy away from him and crave his approval in turn. No direction or decision, remnant instinct. Just a small voice in the back of their mind telling them that he should be feared. A voice warning them of his stance and silence, what it represented— this man won't play your game, he plays his own. 

His meal had been plain and ridiculously overpriced, the conversation stilted, the client attempted to joke and laugh; a meagre attempt at forming a relationship. The man proved to be idiotic, clearly born into the business, it seemed impossible for to achieve such a high rank, when stupidity was his default. Sebastian stayed silent for most of the meeting, avoiding idle chatter as he sat, forcing the client to speak with his guard. His eyes remained glazed following his meal, staring at nothing in favour of engaging the man. When incessant chatter fazed into a constant drone he spoke clearly, interrupting the man.

"—he was so rude, I suggested that—"  


"Mr. Roberson. Where is my vantage point?"  


"Oh, er, it's erm- wait a minute- the roof of the South Bank Centre. At 2pm, Is that oka—"  


"Where is my mark?"  


"Vi-Victoria Embankment gardens, across the riv—"  


"Yes, yes I know where it is for fucks sake. Who is my mark?"  


The bumbling man retrieved a small envelope from his inside pocket and placed it in Moran's hand, now standing over the flustered client.  
Moran strode from the restaurant without another word, stepping out into the brisk chill of London in Autumn, before hailing a taxi to return to his hotel.  


***  
Moran checked his watch, now more appropriately dressed in loose combat pants and a form fitting shirt.  


13:56.  
He assembled his rifle, practiced hands moved quickly in anticipation. The envelope had held two small photographs, of an unimposing suit eating his lunch on a bench. Moran had already spotted the matching location within the park.  


13:58.  
Moran got down on one knee, the butt of the rifle pressed into his shoulder as he took aim. The man was already present, Sebastian trained the scope towards the man's face. He pulled the slack on the trigger as he aimed towards the mouth.  


His watch beeped, he compressed the trigger. The bullet flew into the man's open mouth as he attempted to eat his meal, angle allowing the bullet to pass bone, severing the brain stem at the base. A perfect shot. The pressure jarred the body, most likely snapping the man's neck. Sebastian had already begun to pack his rifle, mark of no interest to him now, standing as he did so. Every scene of his life was interchangeable.


End file.
